


What A Lion Regrets

by goldenslumber



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Fate, Foreshadowing, Happy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-11
Updated: 2013-03-11
Packaged: 2017-12-04 23:00:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/716065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenslumber/pseuds/goldenslumber
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cersei sends Jaime to put a certain fortune teller to death for her horrendous predictions. Not before, of course, Maggy says a few choice things: "A maiden as calm and still as the face of the moon, as bright and brilliant as the sun, will come, wielding a sword, as the crone wields her lantern.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	What A Lion Regrets

**Author's Note:**

> Written for these prompts:
> 
> #5 - "Something that foreshadows their meeting and what they will eventually mean to each other. Maybe a young Jaime secretly meets with Maggy as well, and she tells him of his future?"
> 
> #85 - “I always wander what is House Tarth motto? I would like a fic in wish Jaime has something to do about it.”
> 
> I willing admit that some things might be inaccurate. I can't remember too much about Maggy and too lazy for research.

Just before dusk, Cersei comes to Jaime and shakes him awake. She is in her green, gold-studded shawl, the usual tumble of her curls pinned expertly from her face so that it may shine like the sun all on its own. A bright light that floats before his bleary eyes and drags him from sleep without hesitation; he was never one to let trivial things stand in the way of his passions.  
  
As he dresses all in a fumble, Cersei circles his chamber, then comes to a stop just before his chest. There she picks up Jaime's sword; the golden one. It is his weakest piece of weaponry, the one he uses for show, so that the commoners will “Ooo” and “Aah” at the Lannister wealth. Cersei comes back to him and holds it out and presses it into his unscarred palms. They do not speak, he does not know where they are going, why he needs a sword, but he tucks it into place at his hip anyway.  
  
Together, they step lightly over the sleeping servants and duck passed hallway tapestries. The torches throughout Casterly Rock's halls have all burned down. Their memory in the scent of lamp oil and old smoke lingering in the drafty corridors. Once beyond the over tired guards whose watch hasn't ended, Cersei whispers, “Come, dear brother” – as though he needs to be told – “this will be fun, I promise. A treat.”  
  
“The only treat I need is you, my sweet sister.”  
  
The sound of festivities can be heard from the castle courtyard. A distant tug and pull of excitement and happiness and Cersei pulls Jaime by the hand, more insistent than the last time. “They are celebrating Father's name day.” They cross in the dark to the stables. Some boys in there are wrapped in fleeces, some in wool blankets, some in ox hide. Some are simply curled up on the floor like dogs. All sleeping. “There is a woman bound to be out there. I met her once before. And she did and  _said_  such wretched things.” Those emerald eyes of hers.. they are dangerously sharp, cautiously manipulative. They watch Jaime saddle a horse without being bidden. Anger pulses in those cunning depths.  _Murder_  is an unspoken command tracing the ring of her lips.   
  
Jaime feels his own anger. A tangled, struggling thing that leaps up into his throat, but swells and does not fit. “This woman. She hurt you?”  
  
“ _Yes._ ”  
  
Now he knows why Cersei had gotten him his sword. “Where can I find her?”  
  
“Out there, among the revelers, making her keep with false words and horrendous lies.” She touches his cheek, brushes fingers through his hair. “She goes by Maggy, and is a stooped, ugly old woman. Like a frog.”  
  
“We caught frogs together, once,” Jaime says. Milky moonlight falls through the open stable door and engulfs his twin, making her face all sharp, hard planes of flawless white. “Down in the dungeons. I swore I'd heard them croaking and you hiked up your dress and ran through the frigid puddles, laughing. You went way beyond the reach of my lamp and I lost you in the shadows.” Her hand cups his jaw, draws him to her, and she tastes of sweet cream.  
  
“And I reemerged, cupping the noisy thing between both hands,” Cersei finishes, impatiently. “But what I remember most is that you insisted it be brought to Tyrion as a gift and that horrendous toddler crushed it in his grasp.” The cream turns sour. “Find this Maggy frog and crush her for me.”  
  
“Anything for you.” Another kiss, two,  _three_ , before she pushes him away.  
  
“Go now, before the castle wakes.”  
  
Jaime climbs his mount and rides out into the courtyard, down one way, and up to the front gate. There he decides that smooth, silken words are easier to use to get back in – out is a much simpler matter when the portcullis is raised. Merely mowing down the handful of crimson cloaked men standing guard is much more amusing to him, and his laughter echos around him as he plunges passed into the night.  
  
It doesn't take long to reach the festivity site. Pink half-light still pulses on the horizon, giving a nice illumination for his path. Well below Casterly Rock, far beyond the palisades, dry, rocky pasture stretch for a mile until the ground becomes soggy and green, filled with reed and sedge and people. Hundreds of them wander, dance, drink, laugh. Inns and other buildings bend toward the sudden population, tents and temporary things pitch themselves into place. Jaime has always thought the plains were dull. Now he is taken aback by the sight of such energy, at the beauty of wild doers and frolicking commoners. It is not like normal and proper celebrations, under the pay and order of lords and knights. This one feels much freer. A more organic thing.  
  
Jaime weaves his horse through these people who glance at him, but do not stare, who twist around him without thought, surging by, chattering, holding hands, _smiling_. He does not believe Cersei that this is all for his father's name day; that may just as well be the excuse.  
  
Distantly there is the promise of Lannisport, reeking as a city does, overcrowded and subdue. Before that, though, a silver river pours toward the sea, like an echo caught between stones. Whose crystal blue waters Jaime has seen hundreds of times when riding by, and he's never gotten the chance to touch. A young woman passing by notices the way his eyes stare. “That's the Sapphire Rush,” she pipes up, and glides a hand along his horse's flank. “When I have my first son, I will name him for the holy river. Saphdrios.”  
  
Jaime glances at the girl. She is his age, if not younger, with sloe eyes and a tumble of black hair. “You are not from the west,” he says. It is not a question and the girl cocks her head. “If you were, you'd know that that river is actually the calmest one along this rocky and treacherous coast. And, you'd realize you're touching a Lord's son horse. Blaze doesn't like be touched.”  
  
“Blaze?” she says, smiling. Her hand rolls over and caresses and brushes passed Jaime's calf before taking Blaze's long, slender face between her palms. “How cute. Did you raise him?”  
  
“Since he was a foal.” With a gentle jerk Jaime pulls the horse's snout from the stranger's grasp; Blaze did not seem to mind this woman's touch. “I am looking for an aged woman who goes by the name Maggy. Do you know where I will find her?”  
  
“Maggy? No. I've not heard of this woman. What interest is she to a Lord's son?”  
  
“None of your concern.”  
  
The night is warm, spiced and sparked, and everywhere Jaime looks there are campfires, their ashes glowing in the air, floating about the people. Music, both of the usual Westerosi taste (The Bear and The Maiden could not be mistaken for anything but) and of far distant, haunting places can be heard. Women in brightly colored flounced skirts circle and shake in an strange dance and clap their hands over a circle instrument with metal tinging disks. Thrice Jaime asks people for directions to find this Maggy, but none seem to recall any such old woman.  
  
“Did I hear you right? You be looking for Maggy?”  
  
Jaime turns in the saddle to peer down at a small boy. “You know where I can find this woman?”  
  
“Course,” the boy said. He pointed far to the plains and people. “Her tent is there, green and hard to miss. Smoky inside. She's a not right one, though. Will take your blood for a future.”  
  
“Pardons, my what for a what?”  
  
“A drop of blood. She'll tell yah about your future for that.”  
  
 _Ah_ , Jaime thinks, smiling,  _Cersei, you beautiful fool._  
  
Of course his twin would be dissatisfied by a fortune teller. If he was not in Cersei's future, then she would come away unsatisfied and insulted. Jaime thanked the boy, tipped him a copper, and rode off to find this tent.  
  
Alone, frog Maggy's tent stood. Jaime had little time for details, and hoped for night to spare in order to spend time with Cersei on his return. He would amuse her and delight her with the tale of what he'd done to this Maggy. She loved tales of valor, in her honor, especially. He dismounted, removed his Lannister cloak to drape over Blaze's flank and sauntered easily to the entrance, a hand toying with his undrawn sword.  
  
He wonders, fleetingly, if he should be ashamed of such an inglorious feat. An old woman, defenseless, and stooped, was not, perhaps, the most knightly of opponents. Then again, “The things I do for love.”  
  
Inside the tent is stuffy and tastes of more incense, than smoke. Everywhere, there is clutter, there are pots there, benches here, pillows and fabrics and elaborately beaded and braided decor. Jaime graces his fingers over a silky green pillow, and a voice croaks out of no where, “Come for a fortune?”  
  
“No.” His eyes find the hunched shape of an old woman in the deepest corner. She is drenched in shadow, a blanket pulled around her shoulders and bags beneath the eyes of a ghost. “You're a fortune teller. Shouldn't you know why I'm here?”  
  
Those eyes do not blink. “I know. I know why you were sent, why you've arrived. But you shall leave here, tonight, and I shall still be breathing.”  
  
“You are wrong.”  
  
“I am never wrong.”  
  
Silence, deafening, and Jaime feels a pit of curiosity opening in his chest. “What did you say to my sister?”  
  
“The truth. What she asked me to tell her. I told her the future.  _Her_  future.”  
  
“Was I in it?” He must ask.  
  
“No.”  
  
The word is wrong. The answer is overwhelmingly corrupt to Jaime. That is impossible. He never plans on leaving his twin, they are two halves to one whole. They share more than love, they are more than soul mates, they simply are one being. How could they carry different futures? There seems to be only one way that would work.. “Do I die? Does she?”  
  
“I do not know for you. I need a drop of blood for that. Her.. not for many, many years.”  
  
“One drop?” Jaime does not see the harm in hearing this Maggy's words before he slits her throat and she does not speak ever again. “For an entire telling?”  
  
“One.”  
  
Jaime sits before the woman, on lavish fabrics. He sets his golden sword across his crossed legs; a reminder, a layer of promise and protection laying there in reach. Between them sits a low table, carved of white wood, veined in rivulets of red fire. Maggy's crinkled, papery hands take his young, perfect ones and there is a prick, a well of blood, and the next words out of the old frog's mouth are in a wince, “You will lose a piece of yourself.”  
  
 _Cersei_ , Jaime thinks. He will lose her. His worst fear. Already, he knows this Maggy is lying. He would never allow Cersei to be harmed, to be taken from him, so officially, in such a way as death. His eyes narrow and Maggy cradles his right hand carefully,  _carefully_.  
  
“You, a lion declawed. A lion tame and broken. A maiden as calm and still as the face of the moon, as bright and brilliant as the sun, will come, wielding a sword, as the crone wields her lantern.”  
  
“'As a crone wields her lantern?'” Jaime repeats critically. “What does that mean?”  
  
“Means she shall be your guide.”  
  
“Who is this maiden?” he asks doubtfully.  
  
“As clam and still as the face of the moon, as bright and brilliant as the sun.”  
  
“You said that, it doesn't tell me anything. Cersei was right, you're lies have gone on–”  
  
“You asked about death. I have an answer.” Maggy leans forward. “Cersei shall die before you.”  
  
“How reassuring,” Jaime says, dripping sarcasm. He draws his hands to the hilt of his sword. “That is not helping your case. If she dies, I'll follow soon after. I do not wish to live in a world without my other half.”  
  
“You shall die years afterward. Beneath the moon and sun, by blasted rocks and blue sea.”  
  
Precariously, Jaime lays the flat of the sword's blade over the table between them. One thrust and the tip buries itself in the woman's ribcage. A slow, agonizing death for anyone. “Tell me,” he says, wanting to catch her in a lie. “Will I ever become a king?”  
  
“No.” Jaime crimps his lips together. “But your sons will be.”  
  
Now, they curl, sharply. “All you tell me is nonsense.”  
  
“All is truth.”  
  
“How can my sons be kings, if I am not one? Do I marry a queen?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Then you lie.”  
  
Maggy bows her head. “If you will.” Then she lifts her head and chin and stares coldly on. “But I have one more thing to say, before you take my life.”  
  
“What is it?”  
  
“You're fourteen.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
It seems as though Maggy will speak, as though there are words she wishes to say, to warn. Jaime rises to the bait, despite himself, and sees a hundred things in the future, all jumbled and uncertain. “Mistakes,” Maggy finally says, the word a hiss. “Many mistakes, you will make. Dark and red and unfortunate, they will be. This will be one.”  
  
“This? Killing you?”  
  
“Letting me live.” A horrendous row of barely visible teeth greeted him when the woman's lips curled back in what he supposed could be a smile. Something flips his sword so suddenly, and the woman twists the sword around with heavily wrapped hands. The metal tip bites against his adam's apple. “Goodnight, Ser Jaime. See yourself out.”  
  
He stares. He knows that she knows that he can easily maneuver out of this. There is strength and agility and speed and youth on his side, and she has nothing more than a weak blade, too dull to cut the skin without harsh force that her joints and limbs do not possess. They both know that.  
  
Jaime rises slowly to his feet, exits the tent, mounts Blaze, and never looks back.  
  
He tells Cersei that he got rid of the sword; too much evidence, too much blood, ruined anyway. It delights her to hear of such a grandiose justice on her part. He tells her nothing of the old frog's croaking, and eventually, he, too forgets.

* * *

  
 **Years Later..**  
  
“Ser. Lady.” Brienne glances at Podrick, and tips her head just that fraction to let him know she is listening. “I was wondering. P..per..perchance.. you could tell me the Tarth house motto?”  
  
“Tarth?” Brienne sighs and stares off.  
  
Jaime smiles. “Can't be near so bad as house Lannister.”  
  
“Yours is not bad,” Brienne tells him. “The original is very.. becoming.”  
  
“More so than the most used one,” Jaime agrees. “But share, I confess, I have never heard Tarth's.”  
  
“'As calm and still as the face of the moon, as bright and brilliant as the sun.'” Brienne gives her head a miffed shake, whereas Pod nods appreciatively, and Jaime's eye twitches just that bit. “Wordy and unnecessary, really. With near nothing in common with us Tarth's, not me nor my father.”  
  
“You're quite calm, my Lady,” Jaime supplies, lost in another place within his thoughts. He gets a sort of feeling he'd heard that saying before. “Strange. I think I have heard that in the past. I was sure I hadn't.”  
  
“Strange, indeed.”  
  
“Ser... Lady..” Podrick give a shy, cast at the ground, smile. “Can you tell me more of Tarth?”  
  
“You certain?” She could talk of home for a rather long time.  
  
“The lad knows you smile more when you speak of it,” Jaime says, shrugging off the nagging feelings that held his mind. “I confess, I am now more curious about this sapphire isle.”  
  
For the day's ride she spoke of her home, long missed, and it left her aching come the night.  
  
One day, she would return to Evenfall Hall and was sure to be overjoyed that she lived to see it again.

* * *

**_More_  Years Later..**

  
Outside, on the steps of Evenfall Hall, Jaime trips and lands face first in the dirt. His golden hand slips out from underneath him when he tries to catch himself and Brienne snatches at his arm just one moment too late. An uncomfortable ripple of laughter goes through the onlookers, then it strengthens with confidence when Jaime, himself, laughs at his own clumsiness. His wench stands there, a smile fighting to be across her freckled, pinked face, and he glance momentarily to the steps, to find the source of why he sought to ruin a perfectly fine wedding ceremony, and he stalls there. A sword, golden, old and unsharpened in many, many years, sits there, perfectly untouched. “Who leaves a sword here?” he demands, voice carrying over the crowds.  
  
Podrick, tall and grinning, dark eyes steady on Jaime's face, calls out from the crowd. “There's only one fool cripple I know who uses gold for his wears.”  
  
There's only one person in Westeros who would dare call him a cripple in public, to his face, at his own wedding. Brienne stoops to pick up the sword, despite the dress clinging to her limbs, and she twists it this way, then that, catching the late sunlight over the metal. A glint flashes over Jaime's eyes and dazzles him. “The hilt has Lannister lions.” She holds it out, curiously for him to take.  
  
She is right. There are lions on this sword. Three of them. They're named, too. Jaime remembers naming them when he was ten and his lord father had presented the sword to him for his name day present. Tyrion is the the one with the longest mane. Cersei is the one rearing up, elegant and intimidating. Jaime is the one that hooks its claws and snarls. He has not seen this sword..  
  
Suddenly, he's looking about.  
  
“Jaime,” his wench interjects. “What are you looking for?”  
  
“The matching shield,” he says, stupidly. Because he should of known. Because he smiles, just slightly, because he's looking at Brienne  _Tarth_ , and around them is an island engulfed by blue sea and made of blasted rocks. “You know, has anyone ever told you how calm, still, bright and brilliant you are?”  
  
She blushes, as he expected. “Only you.”  
  
He examines the sword one final time. The frog got one thing wrong, he decides.  
  
There are many things he regrets, a hundred mistakes he's made, but sparing her was not one of them.


End file.
